For The Temple

For the Temple
Only the third sun, Esprit, remained in the sky, its watery cool light lending a subtle blue cast to the cold land below. Soon that too would vanish, sending out pale white streaks across the darkening sky as it set. Swans feathers some called them. Night itself would be short, perhaps an hour or two, but it would be bitterly cold in the darkness. Already frost sparkled in the pale light, for Esprit alone gave very little warmth.
In the Hours of the Spirits (as the few short hours that Esprit ruled the sky were called) few would be outside, the twilight and the cold made working very unpleasant.
Close to the edge of the High Peaked Mountains of Snow, a small village lay nestled between the rock of a mountains outthrust limb and a dark, dense forest of jagged pine. Half a mile out of the village, across the other side of a broad, sluggish river, a tall wooden watch tower poked its head above the eaves of the forest. Below it and tight packed among the trees, a camp was established, with cook fires already doused for the night and most sleeping wrapped in blankets under nothing more than the trees. Horses were tied in great lines among the trees, and swords lay by the sleepers ready to be caught up at any moment. One or two men were awake, standing guard over the sleeping ones with grim, black shadowed eyes and faces pale with exhaustion. Crowded as they were under the trees, it would have been nearly impossible to tell their number.
Further back in the forest a few fires burned on, and those around them groaned and whimpered through the night. A few shadowy shapes moved swiftly among them, quieting moans, mopping brows and cleaning wounds. Many of these might not survive the night in this harsh part of the world.
A tall, slender figure, wrapped and hooded in a long black cloak, walked stealthily around the edge of the camp and headed hurriedly for the village. The figure did not seem to scurry along, but ate up the ground with long determined strides. Fording the river, it hiked up the cloak to keep it dry and the glinting tip of a sword snuck out from under the black cloth. Strong, sturdy soldier's boots and the ends of buckskin trousers could also by discerned in the failing light. There was something youthful about the way the figure moved, but nothing that hinted at swagger. Just strength and quickness.
Moving like a flickering shadow along the walkways of the village, the figure finally came to a halt in front of a small cottage with bunched herbs hanging at the door. A Cunning Woman's house. Jumping catlike over the gate which seemed to hang a little lopsidedly on the hinge, the figure sped up the short path and hammered fiercely on the door of the cottage.
In an upstairs room a lamp flickered into life and a window was flung open. A grey haired woman leaned out of the window and glared down at the cloaked figure.
"What be you a hammering at my door for, Soldier?" She snapped in a strident voice, the last word spoken as little more than a sneer.
"I need your assistance, Cunning Woman. The General is taken very sick of his wound," Even in the weak light it was easy to see how the Cunning woman's eyes widened at the voice. It was a soft, smoky voice, a young woman's voice.
"Put back your hood so I can see your face, little harlot!" The Cunning Woman snapped imperiously.
The hood was thrown back defiantly, revealing a woman who was little more than a girl. Her hair tumbled in loose black curls around a heart shaped face, with strong cheekbones. Her skin was lightly bronzed and held the kind of subtle glow that came with youth and beauty. But her green eyes were hard as any veteran soldiers, speaking of experience beyond her years, and she returned the Cunning Woman's glare with something close to contempt.
"You will be well paid, but you must come quickly," she said in her soft tones. Tones soft like velvet wrapped around steel.
The older woman hesitated a moment at the window as if she was about to say more, but the girls hard stare stayed her tongue. She turned back into the room muttering under her breath.
The girl let her cloak fall open now as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the wall to wait. Her sword, hung at her left hip without a scabbard, gleamed deathly blue in Esprits' light, as did the line of daggers on her belt and the links of mail on her tabard. A beautiful young woman certainly, but every inch a soldier without mistake. Her breath fogged on the air as she swung her head slowly, looking up and down the deserted street as if anticipating attack, yet only the fact that occasionally she stopped to scrape a leather gloved hand through her hair belied her appearance of calm readiness.
As soon as the Cunning Woman cracked open the latch on the other side of the door she started to her feet, moving a little down the path.
"You'll take my bag, girl. I'm not so young as you and if we must move so quick I cannot manage it," the Cunning woman snapped at the girls retreating back.
She spun on one heel and stalked back up to snatch the bag from the Cunning Woman's fingers, looming tall over the older woman, though she was hardly short. Then she spun again and moved off back down the path with angry pace.
"You've all the manners of a soldier for certain, girl," the older woman growled as she struggled to catch up.
"An old woman with even less manners would do well to remember that I am a soldier, and a good one," the girl growled back, her voice quiet but carrying in a particularly threatening way, then she continued, "She'd also do well to remember that it was the General who kept her precious little village safe from King Vasic's army, at his own expense,"
The Cunning Woman muttered something under her breath, but did not speak to the girl again as they walked through the coming night.
The Soldier girl lead a furious pace back to the camp, and slowed very little as she began to pick her way through the camp itself. The Cunning Woman looked about with alarmed glances at the soldiers, and almost trod on one or two as she stumbled through behind. As she walked passed the injured men, she became tight lipped and pale. A Cunning Woman she was indeed, and could not stand to pass such suffering by, but the girl stalked on, toward the foot of the wooden tower, standing in a clearing cut by the soldiers.
The girl pulled up short in front of it and spoke a couple of quick words to a soldier on guard at the door. The soldier looked quickly over his shoulder at the Cunning Woman and nodded slowly, then stepped aside to let both women through. The Cunning Woman saw the guard's eyes follow her with a shadow of doubt in them, then he turned back to his duty.
Inside the tower on this level the army stores were kept, but atop a rough table made from wooden crates a large map was pinned depicting the valley in which the village lay and the thin pass which led into Mesland on the other side of the mountains. This was the point where the Mountains of Snow where at their thinnest, and the pass was little more than ten miles long. But it was very often blocked completely with snow. The recent "drought" had meant that there had been no snow in a good few months, so for the first time in years the pass was clear.
The girl lead the way across the small storeroom to a set of stairs made from rough-cut planks. The older woman expected the girl to clatter her way up them noisily, considering the dark mood the girl seemed to be in, but instead she sped her way up them noiselessly, with the Cunning Woman creaking and puffing her way up behind.
On the next floor candles burned against the encroaching darkness, and smoke from two coal braziers filled the air. The heat from the braziers made the room feel stuffy, so the combined effect was almost choking. On the floor of the room a man lay on a rough made bed of blankets, his face pale and sweating, eyes closed but mouth open muttering ceaselessly. His hair was as black as the girls and he was a tall, broad man, but already sickness seemed to be leeching the flesh from his bones.
A shorter, red haired man with ruddy complexion was pacing up and down on the other side of the room. Glancing down at the sick man every few seconds with a worried expression. He almost jumped out of his skin when the other man let out a loud moan in the midst of his muttering, and then he rushed to the corner of the room where a bowl of water and a pitcher stood on a camp chair. Hastily he grabbed a cloth up from the bowl and rushed over to mop the sick mans brow. Only then did he look up and notice the girl and the Cunning woman.
"You brought her Kara, Madre bless you. He is getting worse by the minute," the man blurted out in a rush.
Unable to contain her irritation a moment longer, the Cunning Woman stepped round the girl and glared once more round the room before dropping to her knees by the sick bed.
"Bloody soldiers! she snapped as she waved hurriedly at the girl to hand her over her bag, "Have you no notion of the care of the sick?" The girl handed over the bag, the fire in her eyes seeming to be quelled by the sight of the sick man.
"I can stitch a wound well enough, Cunning Woman, but this is far beyond me," the red haired man replied with an edge of despair.
"That I can see!" She barked back, Get the air in here cleared before you suffocate this man," She looked over her shoulder at the girl, "Get me a pitcher of boiling water, quickly!"
She threw back the covers and found the wound. It had been stitched, but it leaked a rancid fluid with a greenish tinge. She ground her teeth looking at it, then put her hand to his forehead. The heat in his skin was already almost too much for life to bear. Still staring at the wound, she reached into her bag and pulled out a tiny pair of scissors.
"You should have called for me sooner," she muttered. The red-haired man actually wrung his hands at that. He was standing at the head of the bed, pulling down a covering someone had put over one of the tower's small windows.
"The General wouldn't have it, madam. He was carried here about two hours ago, after he collapsed on his nightly rounds,"
The Cunning Woman snipped open the first stitch, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the way the stitching cut into the swollen flesh. A smell like swamp water and decay rose up and immediately she ducked into her bag and pulled out a little jar of clear jelly. She smeared a little round her nose. She heard the red-haired man retch.
"This is poison, in his wound, but I suppose even you could have guessed that," the Red-haired man nodded, his skin taking on a greenish tinge as she snipped another of the stitches.
"If you must be sick, do it out of the window, then get on with clearing the air in here."
"I'll.. I'll be all right," he managed, then he scuttled across the room to drag one of the braziers closer to an open window.
She snipped open the rest of the stitches and the wound gaped, a ragged hole in the Generals side, blackened blood and greenish poison oozing out of it, and the flesh, where it could be seen, was red and puffy. The wound stank freely, and the cunning woman bent her head to inspect it closely, muttering through tightly pursed lips.
"Is there clean water in that jug, and a clean cloth?" She asked without looking up.
"Yes, madam, I always keep clean cloth in my surgery kit." and he dashed over to the corner to grab up the pitcher of water and pull a cloth from a little leather bag on the floor by the chair.
He looked up suddenly as he handed her the cloth, so she glanced over her shoulder to see the girl, Kara, standing there with a steaming pitcher in one hand. The girl wrinkled her nose a little at the smell now hanging in the air, but seemed otherwise unconcerned by it. Her eyes were on the wound in the Generals side, but no-one could have read what the sight meant to her in them.
"Bring that water here," the Cunning Woman ordered, and the girl laid it down beside her. The Cunning woman dipped the clean cloth into the pitcher of cool water and bent over the General to begin cleaning out his wound.
"Go into the bag girl, and fetch out a red sachet. Tip its contents into the jug then get your surgeon here to give you another clean cloth to soak in it," she said distractedly as she surveyed the wound again.
The poison had already worked itself far into the man, and the wound itself was growing infected from the heat and the filth of the poison. She knew the wound had certainly been cleaned already, but in the rush to get all the wounded dealt with, not cleaned well enough. Gritting her teeth she gently began to wipe at the hole in the Generals side.
Even with his fever racking him, the General cried out in pain. The red-haired man echoed his yell with a whimper and the cunning woman heard the girl growl.
"If I do not clean this, he will die for sure," she hesitated a second letting the truth sink in to herself before speaking again, "I cannot let you hold out much hope that he will live anyway, but this is the best chance I can give him. Only the Magii would have a good chance of saving him now." The red-haired man whimpered again, louder, but the girl stayed silent. The cunning Woman glanced over her shoulder to be sure she hadn't fainted but she sat there with a thoughtful expression on her face.
The cunning woman shook herself a little and went back to her cleaning. This time she was not so tentative, and firmly, though quite gently, she wiped the wound from top to bottom. The General arched his back and yelled, fresh sweat poring all over his skin. She did the same thing several times, until the bed beneath him and her hand and arm were running with fresh red blood. The Generals cries had been reduced to whimpers.
She stood up and walked over to one of the braziers, where she disdainfully dropped the cloth she had been using onto the red hot coals. It smouldered and steam, letting out a putrid smelling smoke. Marching over to the corner she washed the blood from her hands and arms in the basin and dried them on a towel laid there, leaving red streaks on the cloth.
Kneeling again by the general, she turned to the girl.
"Give me that cloth now, the mix it's soaked in will hopefully draw out the poison from the wound. After we've bound that in place, we'll have to try and get him to swallow something to bring down that fever," The girl's eyes were locked on the General, but she nodded as if agreeing to what the Cunning woman said and passed her the cloth. It was still hot enough to steam, and the General groaned as she pressed it hard against the wound. The Cunning woman's eyes flicked up to the red-haired man.
"We will have to sit him up so this can be bound. I will keep it pressed, the girl can lift him - she looks strong enough- and you will have to bind it. Don't be afraid to do it quite tightly,"
He nodded slowly, but he paled again. As he bent to pick up his kit and rummage through it the girl took a position behind the General.
"You'll need to get your arms under his armpits and haul him up very slowly and gently. This wound may tear if you go too fast," The girls face set to a grim expression, her teeth clenched and she began to ease her hands underneath. That she seemed comfortable with touching him in such a familiar way, slowly drawing him upright to rest against her chest while she waited for the Red-haired man to be ready, made the Cunning Woman click her tongue against her teeth in disgust. The General was old enough to be this girl's father. The General groaned again and the girl bent and whispered something in his ear, too quiet for the Cunning Woman to catch.
Finally the red-haired man was ready, so the girl held the General's body away from hers and slowly the bandage was wound round the man. Occasionally the General tried to thrash against the pain in his side, but the girl was startling strong and she held him fast so that he could not injure himself further, murmuring soft words in his ear. With the bandage done and wound tightly and tied neatly enough to satisfy the Cunning Woman, the Girl kept the General upright while the Cunning woman took out a funnel. She poured the bitter medicine down his throat at a trickle, making the girl keep his head tilted back, while the red-haired man paced and wrung his hands.
Finally they could lay the man back down, and he seemed to fall into a deep slumber. His forehead still burned and the Cunning Woman was fairly certain that the poison was still running riot through him. The girl took another cloth and dampened it to mop his brow, her face and expression looking as close to soft as the Cunning Woman had seen it. For a moment she almost felt pity for the girl.
"A girl your age ought not to be attaching themselves to men so much older," she said quietly.
"Why not," the girl replied, looking up, "He is my father, Cunning Woman. My father," the last had a firm edge that brought a flush of embarrassment to the Cunning Woman's cheeks. The girl took no notice.
"How long does he have now do you think?" she asked.
"A few hours more than he did have, but with less pain than he might have. He may last till Madre rises now,"
Vexation crossed her face now, and she bit her top lip.
"If he could but live to the Hours of Travel," she murmured.
"I cannot give you much hope of that,"
"Aye, and even the Magii cannot heal a dead man," she looked up at the Cunning Woman again, "One comes in the Hours of Travel, to apply Simple Law to this battle. Madre send he decides to come sooner,"

Deiter growled to himself as he swung up into the saddle of his tall white stallion. The horse frisked and rolled his eyes at Deiter. Trust Dera to find something "more important" to do, he thought to himself. What could be much more important than passing Simple Law on a border skirmish he wasn't entirely sure, but he always found it hard to turn his sister down when she came to ask something of him. She was all there was left of his family after the many long years they had both been Magii.
Touching his heels to the stallion's flanks he moved off, still muttering, steering the large creature toward the shimmering Portal that would take him from Prime to Secondus. As he passed through he shivered. The drop in temperature between Primes summer in the Hours of Passage to Secondus's almost permanent winter in the Hours of Wakening was severe, and one thing about this method of Travel he never got used to. He pulled his thick cloak round him, but the sweat that had slid down his back just moments before was starting to chill unpleasantly so it was hard to keep the cold out.
He came out on the other side into a small courtyard with a low round turret on the other side and high walls round a paved area. Ivy sprawled along the walls and up the flanks of the turret. The sky was pale blue and Madre was not far up in the sky, a large white disc on a hazy horizon. Tesra Dane, a small, elegant Mage stood before him, with white gloves and white dress barely visible beneath the grand swirling black of her Magii cloak. She was young, newly graduated and had been a pupil of his. So proud still of her cloak that she wore it now, in spite of the chill. Her hands were raised, palm first, though the palms were hidden in the folds of her cloak, and a silky looking shimmering thread ran from her to the Well Stone atop the Portal. Deiter pulled up the reins of his horse and came to a halt by the slender woman.
"It must be earlier than I thought," he said, smiling down at her.
"Just passed the first watch of the Hours of Wakening, Deiter. I thought Dera was assigned to the problem in the Mountains?" Tesra replied, her voice was light and musical.
"Dera had other matters to attend to, so I came in her stead. How much longer before you are done charging the Portal? I am due at the start of the Hours of Travel,"
"I should be done by Half Watch. Marna has tea in the kitchen, you should probably go and get some,"
Clicking his teeth, he swung down from his horse and walked him over to the tying post that stood beside the door of the low turret. He hitched up the impatient stallion, carefully avoiding the beast's hooves, then he pushed open the door and had to duck his head to go inside. Inside was a round kitchen with a large black stove in the middle and a heavy oak table at the other side. He strolled over to the stove and picked up the boiling tea pot and went to the table and plucked a mug from the collection that sat on it. Pouring himself a cup he put the kettle back on the stove and sat down heavily on one of the benches pulled close to the table. He glared into his mug and pondered what he would say to Dera on his return from his task.
A door opened and a tall, willowy woman with long grey streaked black hair and a snowy complexion glided in. The soft slippers she wore beneath her long silken gown made no noise as she moved, and she came to rest on his left, looking down at him with a gentle, serene smile, her eyes sparkling a little with humour.
"Dera has you running her errands again Deiter?" he looked up and nodded sourly, "You really must learn to say no to your sister, my boy." she spoke softly in a gentle melodic voice, the quintessential Magii woman's voice.
"Marna, as a child I was taught that I must obey my sister and that is something that Dera will never give up. She may never have been Senator of Disen, but she is still of the line."
Marna laughed, a gentle sound that was only mildly chiding of his tone.
"That is something that she must give up, you know that as well as I do. It has been nigh on a hundred cycles since you both came to the Temple and way past time she cast off that last vestige of her former life. You do not help her with your obedience, even if you do grumble about it,"
"I have already decided that this is the last, Marna. I did not graduate from the School of Smiths to spend my time running diplomatic errands,"
Marna smiled and nodded, a slight but approving dipping of her chin. The humour had not left her eyes though.
"Remember though, Deiter, you have said that before. Try to be sure in yourself that this is indeed the last,"
At that, as Deiter turned round to glare at her, she glided away, back through the door she had come in through. He turned to look back into his mug, sipping it tentatively and staring forward with a grim expression. He had just drained the last cold dregs from the mug when Tesra slipped in from outside. Like Marna, she glided soundlessly across the floor, laying her hand on his shoulder as she reached him.
"Come, I shall make your Travel Gate now,"
He drew himself to his feet, towering above the small woman, and smiled down. Tesra had been a favourite student, a student that he had never been quite sure if his feelings had been entirely proper for, in fact. Not that he had ever let such a thing cloud his judgement, but it added a lot to the warmth of the smile he gave her. She patted his arm in a friendly way and smiled back at him, then stepped out of the room and back out into the frigid air.
He followed her back outside and gathered his stallion's reigns. Tesra walked over to the wall beside the Portal, where a huge map cast in bronze was laid into the stone. Her slender fingers followed the jagged line that represented the Mountains of Snow and stopped at the thinnest point in the range. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers hard against the map there, then opened them again with a sharp nod.
Rubbing her white gloved hands together, she began to charge up a small ball of energy between her palms, until it was roughly the size of a small orange. It glowed white and sparkled like frost in the Hours of Spirits, and she rolled it onto one palm then threw it up into the air. As it fell back down to her outstretched hand it burst and spread out into a thin spray, which solidified into a Travel Gate. She took a step back and examined it with her arms folded across her chest, both her hands tucked into the looping sleeves of her Cloak. She smiled to herself then stepped out of his way as he turned his horse to gallop through.

The Cunning Woman felt her eyes were full of grit from her long vigil at the General's side. It had been some time now since he had so much as stirred in the heavy sleep he slept, but the Girl still held one of his hands and mopped his brow when sweat formed on it. The fever refused to break, and the Cunning Woman knew that it would not now. Hope was gone , replaced by waiting. Somewhere in the camp the Second watch of the Hours of Wakening was sounded, and the girl turned her head and looked bleakly in the direction it had come from.
"Your father has more strength in him than most men, Kara," the Cunning Woman said quietly, trying to keep the girl from despair.
"Aye, but his strength is almost spent, Cunning Woman,"
Suddenly there was a scuffling on the stairs and the red-haired man came up into the room, followed by a tall, ashen haired man. The newcomer moved with the grace and quiet of a Mage, his blue eyes sweeping the room and absorbing the scene.
"The Mage has arrived, Kara." the Red head announced, excitement clear in his voice.
Kara looked up and met the eyes of the Mage, and she saw the sadness in them and knew. Gracefully he knelt down beside her and lifted the bed sheet to look at the wound in her father's side. Blood, the Cunning Woman's potion and the poisonous fluid all mingled on the bandage at his side. The smell of the poison was strong again, and the Mage set his lips in a tight line. He reached forward and lifted up the Generals arm, turning it over to expose the paler flesh on the underside, and then pinching the skin. Letting the arm drop limply, he muttered something and then leaned forward to listen to the Generals breathing. Finally he touched his fingertips to the Generals throat and shook his head sadly.
Turning his ice blue eyes to Kara and ignoring everyone else in the room, he spoke gently.
"He has very little strength left in him. To heal him with the power of the core he must have a reserve of strength left. The poison has sapped him, and the fever has ravaged him. I can do nothing,"
The red-haired man stammered something, shocked by the pronouncement. The Cunning Woman sighed sadly, but Kara kept her eyes locked with the Mage's. The Cunning Woman felt something pass between the girl and the Mage, some kind of understanding, before Kara nodded and turned her gaze back to her father. The girl leaned forward and kissed the dying man on the forehead, then before anyone else in the room could react, she slipped a dagger from her belt and thrust the blade into his heart. The red-haired man gasped and stumbled forward, reaching out to grab the knife from the girls fingers and the Cunning Woman went rigid with shock. The Mage though nodded to himself and put out a hand to stay the Red-head.
"It is her right to end his suffering. Leave her be,"
The girl was slumped over her father's body now, sobbing quietly and wiping the blood from the blade with one of the sheets of the bed. The Mage stood up slowly, not letting go of the red-heads hand yet, and drawing the man away from the bed and the girl.
"If you could escort the Cunning Woman safely back to her home, I will deal with Kara and General Fortuyn," he told the man quietly. The red haired man nodded, but he could not take his eyes off the girl and her father.
"Now if you please, Surgeon," the Mage added a touch sharper, and the red-head finally turned to the Cunning Woman and helped her gather her bag. The Mage stood watching the two of them until the red-head led the woman down the stairs and then turned his attention back to Kara. Kneeling at her side, he placed a comforting hand on her back, and for some time he let the girl sob quietly.
"Mistress Fortuyn, " he said soothingly, and the Girl looked up at him with wary eyes, "Your father was a great man, but you have done right by him. Do not grieve too much, for you carry on with you some of him, some of his remarkable strength. He would not want his death to stand in the way of justice, or to delay it,"
Kara nodded slowly, and she took one last, long look at her father where he lay, and drew herself to her feet, then turned herself to face the Mage, her eyes almost level with his, and let out a ragged breath.
"I will go and summon Captain Tyler," she told him, her voice more hoarse than husky, but controlled.
"The command does not pass to you?" the Mage asked her, an eyebrow raised in surprise.
"No, I am too young, Master Mage, and otherwise... I would not be accepted as a commander, " her lips twisted into a bitter smile and he nodded quietly.
She made for the top of the stairs but looked back over her shoulder at the bed.
"I will send someone to lay him out for the pyre," she said then ran on light feet down the stairs.
Deiter sat down on his haunches, looking at the dead man and thinking. He had known Renald Fortuyn well when the man had been younger, before his promotion to General. Letara Fortuyn had still lived then, and Kara had been a babe in swaddling, but Renald would not be parted from his wife and child. It came as no surprise to Deiter that Kara had grown up into a brilliant soldier, Renald would have known no other way to bring up a child without a mother. Kara would carry Renalds legacy in her heart, but she gave Deiter pause for thought.
Dera had noticed it when Kara was a babe, the girl had the stamp of Magii on her, but neither brother nor sister had wished to take the child away from her parents. Now though, Kara had no ties to hold her, and Deiter had seen for himself the strength of the stamp on her.
"Renald old friend, I must take your daughter for the Temple. I did not know that this post was your command, or I would have come to you much sooner. By Esprit, I hope you forgive me,"

Deiter sat on his stallion, midway along the pass, waiting. Towards him, slowly, the banners of Vasic and Mesland picked their way along the narrow path. At the head rode Vasic himself, head high with the Silver Crown shining on his forehead, his long chestnut waves of hair tumbling to his shoulders. He rode a great dapple warhorse with a golden bridle. A man with the pride of fools, Deiter decided.
Behind him waited the army of General Fortuyn and the land of Massinia, and Deiter could feel the agitation and anger in the air. Each man in that band felt it as a personal insult that the General had been killed in such a cowardly way. Each man itched for revenge, though Deiter could not allow it. Vasic was his alone to punish, by the Simple Law. Deiter had placed Captain Tyler to his left, and Kara Fortuyn to his right. He trusted to their discipline for them not to try and take matters to themselves.
Vasic stopped and signalled the halt some hundred lengths from where Deiter waited, then with just his banner bearers he trotted forward to half the distance. Deiter nudged his stallion to a walk, signalling Kara and Tyler forward with him. As Tyler nudged his horse to trot, Deiter put out a hand to slow him. They must make the Fool King wait. By the time they pulled their horses up before him, Vasic was tight lipped and white faced, obviously unused to such treatment.
"Make this quick, Master Mage. You must know by now I claim Massinia as mine by ancient right," The man snapped at him.
"You have no ancient right to bear arms against another nation, Nastil Vasic, even if you claim the right of the Massinian throne through your sister's marriage," he looked the man straight in the eye, which seemed to make him redden with anger, "Massinian law holds that she may govern in her own right,"
Vasic's eyes flicked to Kara then, and Deiter stifled his curiosity at that look. He had to maintain complete calm in his face.
"No woman can govern herself, let alone a nation!" Vasic growled, "If my sister has gained delusions after her time in Massinia, it is my duty as her brother to disabuse her of them,"
Deiter heard Kara's low growl, and put a hand out to settle her. Annoyed himself by the veiled insult to both girl and nation, Deiter decided that it was time enough to begin the proceedings he had come for.
"You were advised that the Magii would not settle in your favour in this matter, so you leave me no choice. I, Deiter Varyn Magii do pronounce charge on Nastil Vasic, named King of Mesland," Vasic blustered and began to protest, his bannermen shifted uneasily on their horses. With a twist of his wrist, Deiter drew on the core and cast a gagging on Vasic so he could read out his charges in peace. Vasic's eyes bulged and face reddened, but he could no longer speak.
"You are charged with wilfully contravening Simple Law by arming yourself against the nation of Massinia, by carrying an armed threat across the borders of Massinia and by attacking the sworn citizens of Massinia. You are charged of Murder by Command of the soldiers and citizens of Massinia, though the number of counts is yet to be ascertained. Your pleas against these charges will be heard by the Temple Judiciary on Prime and you shall accompany me now. Should you refuse my escort, your nation will stand in fault for your crimes and the Magii will be forced to aggressively disarm Mesland to the last sword. Do you refuse my escort?"
Vasic's face had blackened by degrees as Deiter had spoken and for a long moment he stared furiously at the Mage, but finally he shook his head. Kara rode forward then, the cuffs Deiter had given her in her hands. Vasic's eyes bulged again and he pulled his arms back away from her reach. Standing out of her saddle, Kara reached and caught the mans wrists in a motion almost too quick for Deiter to see. Vasic tried to struggle away from the girls grip, but she was unyielding. She clapped the cuffs closed around his wrists and smiled darkly at him, her eyes burning with fury. Finally she snatched the reigns from his hands and nodded to Deiter.
Deiter turned now to the bannermen.
"Bear witness for your nation what such foolish pride brings to a man, and ride back to your countrymen with word of it. If any man would choose to follow in Nastil Vasic's footsteps, then the wrath of the Magii will be on you all,"
The men nodded uncertainly at Deiter, then turned and rode hard back to the waiting army.
"Kara, bring the prisoner and follow me. My task is done, and it was simpler than we all might have feared. It seems Nastil Vasic was truly no more than a greedy fool. Captain Tyler, you may begin to organise your forces and send messengers back to the Queen in Cardill, for I shall be returning to Prime immediately."
The army parted before them as Deiter and Kara led Vasic back along the pass. They rode in silence ahead of the army, as the Hours of Passage gave way to the Hours of Reflection and came out of the pass in the Last Watch. Deiter pulled his horse up short, and Kara turned hers and Vasic's to face him.
"Why do you stop?" she asked him sharply.
"Kara, you must come with me to the temple. With your father dead there is little for you here, you will not gain rank fairly in any army but a mercenary one. I do not think your father would approve of that at all,"
Kara blinked, then her face set hard and her eyes went cold.
"Master Mage, I may only be a woman, but I am a soldier and this is where I belong. I may never make Captain, but I will always be a good soldier."
"Would that it were so simple, my girl," he began, easing himself forward in his saddle, "You have the stamp of magii on you. You may not feel it for a few years yet, though judging by its strength I guess you will feel it much sooner, but it is there. I cannot compel you to come with me, but you should know that when your time comes you are likely to kill yourself if you do not have guidance. Within the Magii your gender makes no difference, and neither does it to the world you when face it as a Mage,"
She held his gaze, her green eyes boring into him.
"I am a soldier, sir," she said stubbornly.
"There have been no soldiers among the Magii for a deal of time, but times are changing. When fools like him," he pointed to Vasic sagged in his saddle," Feel they can challenge our authority it usually heralds a time of battles and struggle. Without Warrior Magii, we are weak against this coming tide. That, Kara Fortuyn, is what I see in you, the return of the Warrior Magii. Will you still not come with me to Prime?"
Kara shifted in her saddle, her eyes sweeping the shallow valley behind him, seeking out the smoke of the pyres from the battle not two days gone yet. She closed her eyes and sought quiet in her soul to think, then her green gaze was back on him, no longer boring, but weighing.
"I will come," she said quietly.
Deiter took a moment to survey her. He noted the proud tilt of her head, the straightness of her back, the strength of the hand that lay on her sword hilt, the catlike grace with which she held herself as he watched her. She was alert, ready to move, pounce at any moment. Yet she was young, not much more than 16 cycles, though he guessed she had probably held a sword even with the chubby fingers of a toddling child. She would have been girlishly pretty if she were not so hardened, but that made prettiness give way to beauty and grace. A few more years and she would be stunning to look upon. All that and also the stamp of the Magii on her, deeply ingrained and very strong indeed. It must be, for Deiter had no great talent for spotting the stamp. Perhaps, though he did hope against it, she was strong enough to Ride the Tempest. Perhaps.
"Come then Kara Fortuyn, let's go," he said at length and turned his horse in the direction of the Travel Gate he had arrived by. Just this once, he decided he might actually forgive his sister for sending him on her task.

~The End~